


painted sun in abstract

by littlemagician



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:03:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2755454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemagician/pseuds/littlemagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles for alphabet challenge, multiple pairings. </p>
<p>
  <b>(last updated: goodwill - lucas silva/rafinha alcântara)</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apollo

**Author's Note:**

> A for Apollo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A is for Apollo. (lionel messi/cristiano ronaldo)

You’re not intimidated. Not by him.

You’re not, you never are, you just –

He’s something, and you tend to forget it, given you see him in person only a few times a year.

He’s everything, his teeth are bright lights when he smiles, his skin is caramel and soft just by looking at it; but he’s not sweet. He towers over you and looks satisfied while doing it, every goddamn time, and still.

Still.  His eyes never leave yours.

He smiles at you like a predator, but there are layers, so many. There’s always a promise when he smiles his _‘Leo’_ smile. All those reporters and cameras, they could never catch them – the layers – through their useless lens. They show him on a screen as nothing but a statue. Tall. Majestic. Stone. But –

He’s Apollo in person and you’re not intimidated, you’ve never been –

You’re in awe. Every goddamn time.

You try to tell yourself your heart doesn’t skip a beat when he approaches you, your voice is not hoarse when you say his name, your skin doesn’t burn at the briefest touch, and you’re thankful you’re free to run and kick a ball and run and just run –

Away from him. Towards him. It never really matters.

You’re thankful that you feel hot all over but the lens, they could never catch your layers either, they could never translate the fact that it’s not just football setting you on fire. Bringer and healer of diseases, you read once. He’s Apollo fighting for the Trojans, always on the other side of you.

He doesn’t look through you, past you. Years before, that’s what he used to do, pretend you were easy to dismiss. And you didn’t understand at the time, why he did it, why you craved to be noticed. You wanted him to look at you and _understand_. You’re equals.

Later, when you’re sprawled between white sheets and you feel him all over you, you feel him everywhere as he drops open mouthed kisses on your neck and down your chest, you know he gets it.

He knows. You’re both alone and together, and there’s no one else who would ever know how it is.  

You forget it sometimes, how he is. And you don’t know how you ever could, not when he’s all around you, inside you, rooted everywhere under your skin and he’s never leaving, not even when he does. There’ll still be marks that burn for days and vines entwined in your veins.

Sun and light; disease and plague. You tell him so and you feel him laugh against your skin. You know you’re not making any sense and he tells you so. But he understands it anyway.

He’s never leaving, not even when he does.

 


	2. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> B is for Blood. (thiago alcântara/rafa alcântara)

Rafa’s heart beats and pumps blood and it’s like it’s missing something. Of course it is.

He’s driving and he’s alone, he’s almost used to it now. Except – he’s not. He’ll never be. Still, he connects his iPod to the radio in the car, puts something low that’ll soon fade to background noise; and drives. It’s raining in Barcelona, and he snorts at how the whole scene would look from outside. It’s almost like a movie, some bland drama about life and coming to age, except it’s not because it goes on and on and it never ends.

The streets are already full on decorated for Christmas, and it’s beautiful. Rafa can appreciate that, even alone. Actually, it’s not like he’d be paying attention to colorful lights if he wasn’t, anyway. He likes Christmas though, always has, not the holiday itself but the feeling it brings him – It means family, it means Thiago. And Thiago means everything.

He swallows down the bitterness because he never wants to associate Thiago with that. Something sets in his stomach, excitement and _saudade_ and longing.

It’s automatic, memories of sneaking out after midnight to share a bottle of champagne, just the two of them, their unspoken tradition. Kicking a dirty ball until their mother tells them to please, _behave like adults and go get cleaned up before the sun goes down_. Waking up curled around each other, lazy and happy and together.

Christmas means family, and it means the Boss and Mom and Bruno and Tata, but it also means Thiago and he’s more.

He’s the blood running through his veins and he’s marked in ink on Rafa’s skin forever, but he’s more and Rafa has made his peace with that a long time ago. Thiago’s his soulmate, his better half and it’s no secret to anyone.

It’s no secret to anyone he was depressed when he and Thiago got separated, or that he felt like he was missing a limb when he moved all the way to Münich. It’s no secret to anyone he lives and breathes his brother. It’s there, out in the open, and no one bats an eyelash because they’re brothers and they’re the same blood and they’re _brothers_.

He’s Thiago’s, and Thiago is his.

With that in mind – waking up to a solid, warm body next to his just because he feels like sleeping in Thiago’s bed, eating ice cream and things their diets wouldn’t ever allow, staying up late playing FIFA or talking or just laying together, _being_ together – he parks his car in the garage and pulls his phone out.

Thiago picks up by the second ring.

“Rafa?” His voice sounds hoarse, probably from sleep. Rafa looks at the clock and realizes how late it already is.

“Hey there.” Rafa says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He just wants –

He just needs his brother. Thiago knows that, of course he knows. He can relate. There’s a minute, or two, or five; he just listens to his brother breathing, even and soft and there. Almost there.

“I miss you.” Thiago breaks the silence. Rafa knows, and he doesn’t have to say it back.

“When are you coming home, again?”

“A week. Hang in there, yeah?” He knows Thiago’s smiling because he knows his brother like the palm of his hand. “It’ll pass in no time, and I can make fun on your hair in person.”  

“And I can make fun of your atrocious videogame skills? Can’t wait.” Rafa laughs and lifts a weight off his chest, it’s honest and relieved; and he still misses him so fucking much it hurts. But it hurts and stings in a good way, like it knows it’ll be soon soothed and healed soon, like it knows he’ll be whole again.  Thiago’s coming home and everything else is like the music in his car, just background noise.

“Oh, shut up. Go to sleep, _maninho._ ”

“You go to sleep.” Rafa says even if it’s incredibly childish. He knows it’ll make Thiago rolls his eyes and smile even more.

“Mature, Rafinha, very grown up of you.” And after a beat, “Goodnight. Facetime me tomorrow so I can show you Bruninho and Tata’s Christmas gifts.”

“Yeah, just don’t wrap them though, you’re terrible at that. Goodnight, _mano_.”

He smiles for long after the line dies.

Rafa’s heart beats and pumps blood and it’s the same as Thiago’s. It’ll never change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mano/maninho: brazilian slang for brother.


	3. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> C is for Cold. (isco/toni kroos)

It’s one of those days, Isco knows as soon as he gets up. The floor of his bedroom is freezing from more than the A.C blasting cold air into the room, and it’s just one of those days. The hot water from the shower helps, and it’s nothing he can’t handle, anyway. He slips on an old grey cardigan and a beanie over his head, kisses Junior and Victoria’s forehead goodbye – she grunts, she’s not a morning person and much less a cold morning person – so he chuckles fondly and makes sure she’s warm in her sleep and Messi has fresh water in his bowl before making his way to training.

He gets there right on time, having a quick breakfast with Nacho and Jesé before going to the locker room, deciding for his training sweater and shorts, because again, it’s nothing he can't handle, and his body will warm up anyway when he starts running.

He hugs James good morning and makes conversation with Sergio, a nice mood setting in the room – It’s been like that for some time, how could it not, they have been in their best shape – and then he sees Toni from across the room, putting his training sweater over his head and – Gloves.

He looks up at Isco like he’s noticed he’s being stared at, and he almost looks shy when Isco smirks at him. Sergio pats him on the back before making his way to Iker, and Isco approaches Toni with a smile on his face.

“You’re wearing gloves.” Isco says, and it’s dumb, really. Just an observation he makes in accented English.

“You don’t say.” Toni deadpans.

“Sorry,” Isco smile widens, giving away that he’s not sorry at all. “It’s cute, it’s all.”

“I get cold.” Toni shrugs, and Isco doesn’t know if the pink in his cheeks is confirmation of what he said, or if Isco blatant flirting had any effect on him.

“You don’t say,” Isco mimicks him, making the blond glare, though shows no other sign of annoyance. “It’s just – I mean, I thought you’d be used to worst weather, I guess. It’s nice out there.”

“What, you don’t get cold?”

“I do. I just have hot blood in my veins, I guess.” He shrugs, with a smile on his lips that could be interpreted in many ways – though he really wished Toni would take it the way he meant it.

He doesn’t know though, because all Toni does is smile back, almost innocent, and Isco feels warmth spreading through his chest as he throws an arm around Isco’s shoulder and guides them to the pitch.

-

He notices it again, as he walks to the back of the bus – Toni’s blowing hot air onto his bare hands, shoulders hunched as he hides them on the pockets of his jacket. His nose is a slightly red, and it must be cold, too. Isco smirks to himself as his feet automatically carry him to where the German is looking out the window, eyelids almost closing. He drops on the empty seat beside him.

“Where are your gloves?” Isco asks lightheartedly, bumping their shoulders. Toni rolls his eyes. “Oh c’mon, sorry, don’t be mad. I meant it when I said it’s cute.”

“Shut up.” Toni says, his cheeks now matching the tip of his nose. He looks so adorable that Isco doesn’t think twice before taking off his own jacket and throwing over him like a blanket. He watches as the German’s eyes widen with surprise, and he opens his mouth once, twice, and Isco sees he’s struggling with his words, even if his English is perfect. He wants to kiss his nose and his cheeks and possibly kiss him on the mouth, but –

“You don’t – It’s really not necessary. You don’t have to –” He sounds sorry, like he doesn’t want to cause Isco any trouble – and Isco thinks it’s ironic, because that’s exactly what he doing, because Isco is having trouble not kissing the worry away from him and it’s really fucking annoying.

“It’s okay, I told you I’m not that cold.”

“So you _are_ cold. I’m fine, you don’t –”

He trails off and looks up, above Isco’s head, so he turns around e sees Sami looking at them. Isco remembers that it’s his usual spot, sitting with Toni, and he’s almost getting up, but he watches as Sami gets a look on his face, like he’s just decided something in his head, so he just smirks and walks away, sitting with an already asleep Nacho.

He turns back to Toni, whose face is beet red by now, and it’s more endearing than it should be.

“Look, if you want to help, come here –” Isco says, feeling bold and testing his luck with getting away as just another over affectionate teammate, as he pulls up the armrest between their seats out of the way, and extends his arms in an obvious gesture for Toni to – Well, he’s not going to say cuddle, because it’s stupid, but –

Toni looks at him with an unreadable expression for a few awkward seconds – while Isco is deciding between playing it off as a joke or dig a hole on the ground and bury himself – and then. Then he actually _does_ lay his head on Isco’s shoulder, trying to pull the not nearly big enough jacket over both of them. He also wraps an arm around Isco’s waist at the same time Isco wraps his around Toni’s shoulders. Which is awesome, to have an armful of him, whose nose is blowing cold air on Isco’s neck, and maybe. Maybe that’s not the only reason he shivers.

“Liar. You _are_ cold.” Toni mumbles, and Isco can’t see it, but he bets his eyelids are closed, exhaustion and sore muscles getting the best of him.

“Cold is nice, sometimes. Comfortable.” Isco says in a low voice, pushing away the blond hair off Toni’s forehead and turning a bit to plant a soft kiss there.

“Yeah,” And then, his breath is almost warm again from as he whispers against the skin on Isco’s neck. “Thank you.”

Cold is definitely nice sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have you seen isco speaking english at matches because it's adorable. so are toni's stupid gloves.


	4. Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D is for Destiny. (iker casillas/sergio ramos)

Iker was never one to believe in destiny. He doesn’t believe lives have their paths written before they even start. However, he does believe people write their own stories and have the power to shape their own futures. He believes there are things he was _made_ to do just because he wanted it.

He was made to play for Real Madrid, to be Real Madrid. He was made to be captain, to take the responsibility for everyone, to keep all pain and no glory to himself. He was made to be between two white posts and defend the net as if he was a goddamn soldier.

There was a time, years ago, when he knew he wasn’t made to be with _him_. He knew, and yet. Yet he blindly dived and entangled himself in _his_ life like vines, not caring about what was right in front of him, not caring about his future and how David was never meant to be part of it, never fit in any of his possible choices.

When everything falls apart, he thinks, _I should have known._

(David was always now _now_ now, he was never _forever_. David was present and then he was past, and as much as Iker liked to live in the moment with him, he liked the future, too. He liked to think there really was a dawn after the darkest hour.)

Iker doesn’t believe in destiny, but he does believe there’s always a lesson to be learned and there’s always a reason why things happen.

(David was past and then he was a memory, and when it didn’t hurt anymore, Iker could see as clear as day what was in front of him the whole time.)

-

Sergio believes vehemently everyone has a fate, and he knows sometimes things don’t happen accordingly, but they always fall back on track.

Sergio believes in fate and believes in his gut, and when it tells him something, he trusts it.

He felt in his gut that going to Madrid was the right thing. When he feels the blood in his veins turning white and powerful and _Real,_ he knows it was his fate. When he gets called up for the Spanish National Team, he knows it was his fate. When he was with Fernando, he thought it was their fate, too. When he was with Fernando, he felt like he belonged nowhere else, like he that’s where he was supposed to be his whole life; like Fernando’s arms were where his path and everything was leading Sergio to him to all along.

(He screams and cries and curses himself, hates himself for forgetting everything he’s learned about fate. It doesn’t always feel right, but eventually, everything finds its right path.)

It’s confusing and exhausting and so, so fucking hard to let it go – let _him_ go – because they’re not meant to be and Sergio doesn’t know how.

Fernando leaves and Sergio is lost. He leaves and Sergio doesn’t know what’s right anymore, doesn’t know where he belongs and where is his life carrying him to.

(But everything falls back on its right path.)

-

It doesn’t happen with a bang and it’s not a sudden realization.

It burns slowly, but it never really hurts. It’s like starting to see clearly while the fog is disappearing, like walking on the streets after it’s rained and feeling the sun peeking out of the clouds, warmth slowly spreading around again.

It’s holding each other up when everything around wants to crash and burn. It’s Iker picking Sergio up for training every morning, and Sergio handing him a cup of coffee the exact way he likes without having to be asked. It’s kisses before a game, a brush of the mouth against the cheek, the way you kiss someone when you’re sure it’ll happen again, because how could it not?

 It’s holding hands underneath a table, thoughtless and natural like they’re magnets that can’t _not_ be linked. It’s marking their sits beside each other in every plane, every bus, every dinner; not because they ask to, but because it’s clear they belong at each other’s sides.

It’s crying on each other’s shoulders because no one else understands the pain, the exhaustion of the burdens they carry together, like two halves of Atlas.  It’s smiling at each other across the room and everything around disappears, or laughing against each other skin in pure bliss after a win. It’s carrying a trophy together like it’s build out of their hearts and sweat and tears and love (and it is. It _is._ )

It’s a kiss that comes as naturally as Sergio playfully jumping on Iker’s arms every morning, or Iker’s hand on his back when they walk together. It’s a kiss on the back of the other’s neck, wrapping arms tightly against his waist and breathing in, scent more familiar than any other, the another morning starting, and they’re together. It’s Sergio giving everything Iker wants to take, so open and willing and devoted and loving. It’s Iker letting Sergio sneak up under his skin and infiltrate himself in every cell of his body, marking it with his name as he moans Iker’s own like a prayer.

It’s the wild wind, the storm, and the calm after the storm.

(It’s Iker being able to finally _see._ Sergio is past and present and future, he’s a constant and he’s everything. And so, so Iker’s.)

(It’s Sergio finally finding out where all the roads had been leading him to, finally back on his path and now crossing it with Iker by his side.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise bitches bet you thought i had given up
> 
> special short fill for this prompt on the new ficathon (Sergio Ramos/Iker Casillas; a fic where they talk about how meaningful their relationship is and how while Beckham and Torres are good friends to both, they are nothing compared to what they are to one another and amen to that.) IT ME


	5. Effort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> E for Effort.

Patience is a virtue of the good, and Lucas knows when to wait for his turn. Be it in football, be in in anything else in his life. He works and works and he knows the time always comes for him to collect the good fruits of his efforts. However, that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

 _‘Don’t trust the Spanish press,_ irmão _, they’re all snakes. That’s like the first rule. Trust us, trust the_ professor _and the staff, never the press.’_ Was one of the first things Marcelo had told him, and Lucas takes it to his heart. He ignores it the best he can, the way the papers kept saying the club was breaking into a crisis, that the team wasn’t getting along, that they weren’t favorites to win the Liga anymore. He ignores the leaked ‘news’ about his debut that had yet to happen, too, and that was the hardest part.

So he waited.

He listened to Ancelotti’s directions and he trained hard and stayed after almost everyone else was gone. He took Spanish classes, he called his family and friends, and waited.

And waited.

He sits on the bench and watches as his teammates get their asses handed to them by Atlético at home – fucking Atlético, he thinks already --,  watches as the crowd whistles and curses and he memorizes their faces, the frustration and the pain, and it’s all a bit too much. These are the people he sees everyday now, sees how hard they work and how focused they are. The freezing Madrid air seems to punish him for something, biting at his nose and the tip of his ears, punching at his bones as if telling him to get up and _move_ , do something, but there was nothing he could do. So he pulls his scarf up to cover half of his face and crosses his arm against his chest, willing himself to stay put and wait for his turn.

It didn’t come against Atlético, and although there was nothing he could alone have prevented, it’s the worst feeling you can get in this sport. To not be able to even try.

There are talks and serious one he didn’t expect to be part of, to experience so soon when just a month before Real Madrid seemed unstoppable, invincible, unbreakable. But he trains, and his teammates do, too, and there’s nothing you can do but work your hardest and then work some more. Lucas kind of wants to train until he passes out, but he’s not sure what good that would even do beyond making him feel less useless. Carlo _– ‘Please, call me Carlo, Lucas, you’re the only one who still doesn’t do so,’_ \-- tells him to be ready if needed. He is, god, he IS.

And the time comes. He listen intently to what they have to say, pats Illarra – who has been nothing but friendly and kind to him – in the back and thanks God he’s finally there. It’s, by no means, the happiest of the games, but.

It’s the Bernabeu, torn between whistles and curses and encouragement, and it’s the biggest thing Lucas has ever experience in his life, and he thinks, yes. This, this is the moment, this is special, it isn’t supposed to be warming and easy. This is Real Madrid, and it looks feral, feels terrifying and the eyes on the crowd feel like something sharp and dangerous. It makes him want to conquer them, make the noise turn into one of pride and happiness. He will do that. He promises himself that.

It’s nothing people will particularly remember, he doesn’t do anything outstanding, but it’s everything. To him, it’s everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet you thought you'd seen the last of me


	6. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> F is for faith.

European nights, they called it, and it reminded Lucas of history classes when he was little and school didn’t interest him much, couldn’t keep his mind off kicking a ball and dreaming of playing for the rest of his life, except history. History was nice. He didn’t have much trouble getting good grades because he actually listened to classes.

European nights.

It felt like being in a history class himself, this WAS history. For him, and maybe for the club. He felt like a gladiator and the foreign crowd was ready to throw him to the wolves. And Lucas was just – prodigy brazilian boy who’s never known anything besides his home country, his home club, now there he was. European nights tasted strong, he just didn’t know yet whether it was sweet or bitter, but the sensation tickled in his tongue.

“Stop chewing your lips if you want to still have them by the end of the night, perhaps?” Cristiano Ronaldo – Cristiano, reminds himself, kicks a ball in his direction and smiles his millions-of-dollars per campaign smile. He’s joking with him, Lucas realizes, and his feet catch the ball automatically. They share the same language, he remembers, and he doesn’t mean portuguese only.

“I’m anxious,” he says. Not scared. Not nervous. (Although, he is. But this is Real Madrid and these are European nights and there’s no space for that, not much anyway. You’re anxious and eager to play and please and do your job. Like a gladiator.)

“No shit,” Cristiano laughs, smile getting wider. They kick the ball back and forth some more before he gets serious again, approaches Lucas with a hand on his shoulder and covers his mouth with his hand to talk to him.

“I know how you must be feeling,” _you don’t_ , Lucas thinks, but not out of bitterness. It’s a simple fact, but he keeps to himself. Cristiano was born to do these, it wasn’t a dream as much as it was a goal. Lucas has lived a different reality all his life. He thought about the Libertadores with nothing but fondness, though.

“You go out there and you do your best, like we trust you can. There’s a reason why you’re here, in the biggest club in the world. Just remember there’s a reason.” Lucas nods, and it’s not like Cristiano is wrong, and it does him good to listen to the best in the world tell him that, but it does nothing to ease the dread in his chest, the fear he’s locked up deep inside.

 

It’s many minutes after that, right before the match is about to start, that Marcelo comes to him, all shiny eyes and comforting presence.

“Heads up, _irmão._ you’re about to have the time of your life,” he smiles at Lucas, and it’s different from Cristiano. Marcelo smiles like the person he’s doing it to is the best thing around, and it’s weird to be on the receiving end of that, but not a bad weird. It makes Lucas feel warm and welcomed and like there’s a piece of home with him, even if they just met. _Marcelo has this kind of effect on everyone_ , James had said with a fond smile on his face in broken portuguese.

“How was it for you?”

“I honestly almost peed my pants, so try not to do that, maybe? Otherwise you’ll do fine. Try not to think like you’re being thrown to the wolves and more like you’re… one of them now,” He bumps his shoulder on Lucas’ and it’s ok. He’ll be ok. Marcelo was saying so, and there was no reason not to trust him.

“Easy for you to say,” he cracks a smile and Marcelo’s only widens. He hugs Lucas, arms tightly wrapped around his shoulder, and despite his awkwardness and Lucas having to bend down a little to reciprocate properly, he accepts is gratefully.

“Have a little faith, _moleque_. That’s what got you here in the first place.” Marcelo says before cradling his head with both hands and kissing his cheek.

Have faith. He could do that.

Outside the beautiful tunnels of the Schalke stadium, the crowd chanted.


	7. Goodwill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G is for Goodwill, (or, this prompt: _This stranger on the street corner looks like they’re severely unprepared for this cold weather, here, take my scarf, I was planning on donating it to goodwill anyway._ )

The weather is Madrid is killing him slowly, but certainly. He wasn't made for the cold, and even the coldest days in Brazil wouldn't even compare to this - it was ridiculous. He's wearing gloves, a beanie, three layers of shirts and a thick, warm coat; and still he can't feel his nose, his lips, and he's pretty sure his fingers are going numb. He waves goodbye to a couple of his co-workers still focused on their own deadlines, and heads out to brave the freezing street, leaving the much appreciated warmth of his office (dreading the walk to the parking lot across the street, to the very much anticipated warmth of his car).

He takes his scarf out of his bag to wrap it around his neck -- it's an old, faded blue thing, probably with a few comfortably cultivated holes, but he hasn't exactly gone shopping lately and he has sort of a weird emotional attachment to it. He promises himself he'll donate it to goodwill as soon as he gets a new one. For now, it'll do. He buries his hands on the pockets of his coat and his nose further on the scarf; maybe breathing wouldn't hurt so much it he just stopped doing it.

He walks in a hurry as he crosses the street, so focused on getting as fast as possible to his car that he doesn't see when he bumps into someone on the corner of the street. Well, bumping is a way of sugarcoating it, since he almost knocked the poor person to the ground.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry,"

"Fuck, sorry, man," He and the stranger both talk at the same time.

Lucas looks up to the victim of his hurry, and he's not proud to say that the first thing he notices is that this is the hottest guy he's ever seen. He's shorter than Lucas, in an adorable sort of way, but he's all bad boy looks: brown skin and messed up hair, a carefully cultivated scruff that looks seems effortless on his face, boxing gloves thrown over his shoulder; but still a soft, sorry smile on his face.

"I'm so sorry, are you ok?" He asks, but Lucas can only nod dumbly, because the next thing he notices is that the guy should probably be suffering from hypothermia at this point. He has one of his hands shoved on the thin material of the single cardigan he's wearing over a sleeves shirt, and Adidas pants that Lucas is sure are probably doing nothing to keep him warm.

"Are you?" Lucas asks on impulse. "I-- you're freezing."

The stranger looks confused for a second but chuckles, one hand holding Lucas’ forearm as if to balance him. "It's fine. You're sure I didn't hurt you?"

"Yeah and, uh, I mean-- I was the one who almost knocked you over, sorry," Lucas stutters, making an absolute fool of himself.

"It's ok," Stranger, Dark and Boxer replies. God, Lucas feels as sorry for the guy as he wants to get his number. "I'm Rafa."

The guy extends his hand, and even through his gloved ones, Lucas can feel the stranger's -- Rafa's fingers are cold.

"I'm--" He starts, the thinks, ok. Fuck it. "Ok, I can't-- You're really freezing and I can't stare at you like this." On a split second decision he unwraps the scarf from around his own neck, placing it carefully on Rafa's hand, who looks at it with an expression between amusement and confusion.

"Take it. I can't watch you freeze to death."

"Do you just go around streets giving articles of clothing to dumbass strangers unprepared for cold weather?" He asks, but he's smiling, clutching and rubbing the fabric between his hands as if to warm them.

"I was actually thinking of giving it to charity earlier, anyway," Lucas shrugs. "The opportunity presented itself. Also, that goes around your neck."

Rafa's smile only widens at that. "I'm terrible at wrapping scarves, though. Maybe you could extend the charity, help me out?"

God, he's pretty certain Stranger, Dark and Boxer is flirting, but he can never be sure when the guy looks like that. It wasn't often that guys this hot flirted with his nerd, socially ignorant programmer self.

He retrieves the scarf from Rafa's hand and steps closer to wrap it firmly around his neck, but he has to do it twice because Rafa is staring at him right in his personal space with an infuriating smirk on his face, making him lose focus on the simple task and having to start over.

"There you go," He says when he finally gets it right, resting his hands on Rafa’s shoulder only for a second; but when he's ready to drop them, Rafa holds his hands still around the warm fabric.

"You haven't told me your name." He says.

Shit, of course he didn't. "I'm Lucas."

Rafa licks his lips, nods. "Lucas.” He says, as if testing the name on his voice. “Lucas, I don't want to abuse your kindness, but I'm still terribly cold. Would you mind taking me for a coffee while my stupid brother won't show up? I know a place nearby."

Ok, he was definitely, definitely flirting. Lucas is so on board with that.

"I-- Yeah. I'd love to." And when Rafa smiles, Lucas can't help but smiling back.

 

 


End file.
